Hunt and catch
by Siberianchan
Summary: My theorizing about a reunion - a scared, panicking John, a Sherlock just showing up in the middle of the street... and just as slashy/bromance-y as the series. Inspired by some really lovely piece of art.


Title: Ghost hunt

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairing: Hm... there's nothing more explicit than it is in the actual series...

Comment: Inspired by this: .com/art/Sherlock-BBC-Just-don-t-179070173 really awesome piece of fan art by dauntingfire – and yeah, well, by „Reichenbach Falls". What else. This episode broke my heart. Had to do something about it.

Disclaimer: Well, Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may he rest in peace and smile upon all these scholars who butt heads about the question whether Holmes was gay. This incarnation further belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mike Gattis (yeah, Mycroft, show us how much you own your baby brother) and the BBC. The character of Sherlock in this incarnation also belongs to a great deal To Benedict Cumberbatch and John Watson belongs to Martin Freeman. Who belongs to whom in-universe however remains to be seen. (Gattis! Say something!)

**Ghost****hunt**

His feet are carrying him all by themselves, faster, faster, through the streets, sideways, through backyards, even though it is a pain to run, each step getting harder to force on his right leg, each time his right foot meets solid ground being answered by a dozen needles and a brief moment of numbness.

His breath comes in a painful, short, almost non-existent gasps and for some reason his sight had blurred, he can't even see where he was running or who was there in his way...

„John!"  
>For some reason his ears still work as fine as ever, even with the rush of running around his head.<p>

He can still hear his voice in his back, slowly closing in. But then again he would have recognized that voice any place, anywhere, any time.

His leg ignoring John Watson just runs two steps faster.

This is not true.

This is a nightmare. He himself had seen the dead body, broken and smashed and bloody and still and without a pulse and lifeless.

There is no way on earth he could be there as he had been, just standing in the middle of a crowded street in the upcoming twilight of an October night. Right in front of John. Tall and pale and dark and lean as he had always been.

John had frozen and had lost his crutch. The tingle of aluminium hitting the ground still rings in his ears now that he runs.

It must have been a dream. An illusion. His brain was tricking him. Or the meds his therapist had prescribed him finally were showing their side effects.

„John." That voice had sounded so warm and so familiar and firm and real and so _alive_. John's chest had hurt. The sound remembered him of before. Words spoken through a mobile, thick with tears one could hold back just so and steady and sad and final.

John had been unable to answer and the man – the hallucination – had taken a step towards him. „There you are. Been looking all over the place for you." Yes, there was no way Sherlock would talk like that. John's meds just were giving him one hell of a daydream.

He still had not moved and Sherlock's gaze had dropped down to the fallen crutch. „Your leg..." And he had taken one more step towards John.

And John had turned and run, fled, just away, away, away, anywhere but there...

He is aware his legs wont do their service much longer, not to this extreme. And his lungs burn as if he is breathing fire and as he finally slows down his entire body is shaking.

Above him it is getting dark; the first street lights have been lit.

There is a red brick wall and he supports himself against it.

How far he has run.

His head feels light and is spinning a bit.

No way a hallucination would follow him that long... the thought makes him giggle frantically, just as he notices that his face is starting to get wet.

„John!"

He freezes again. Damn, that voice will always make him freeze.

Slowly John turns around, just enough for a glance over the shoulder.

There he stands, dark against darkness, slightly breathless, but calm. And after a few seconds he is once more taking a step, a very hesitant one. And then another one and another one.

He is only two more steps away when John finally finds the willpower to move, to turn around, to try and run for it – but then it is too late, he is captured by a hand around his wrist, a strong grip and his back meets the wall.

And then Sherlock is all around him, close before him, his arms around him and he wont let go, no matter how much John tries to get away.

Damn, he has to, he has to finally wake up from this nightmare...

„Don't..." The voice comes out shaky and restless and hot, frantic huffs of breath clash against John's forehead. „Please, John... be mad at me and punch me and yell at me or whatever... but please... just don't... don't run away..."

The arms around him are shaking, John can feel it without lifting his gaze, without opening his eyes. „That's not true", he finally gasps, still breathless from his run. He is getting old. „Sherlock Holmes is dead. He was my friend and he is dead and whoever you are, stop doing that..."

„From your point of knowledge this is a profound and sound deduction and a very sane statement. But as usual you miss the most important thing." The voice is steady, just as he knows it, but it is different. There is no bite in it. It just sounds... warm. Alive. And breathless, just a bit. Not like Sherlock Holmes. Not at all. „I am not dead, John and I won't stop it."

John finds himself clenching his fists. There are so many words, so much anger and sadness and questions and unshed tears and so much time he spent in a mourning stupor and he had never let it out over the last year and there are so many things...

„DAMN!" His head butts hard against Sherlock's chest, the clash softened by his scarf. „Damn... what... what is this... why are you here? What sick joke..." And suddenly he is out of words again and reduced to gasps and to sniffle and to painfully attempt holding the tears back that are already coming. „If you're just here to..." To what? To hell with it. „Then... then leave... then please... as long as I still think you're not coming back anyways... please..."

The arms are around him again and he feels a head resting on his own. The tall, lean body is shaking. And there is something wet trickling down through his hair and along his ear.

„I'm sorry, John... I'm sorry, I didn't want to but... no other way..." And then it is Sherlock who has a hard time finding words. „I didn't... but... but it is me, you see... I'm here and... and I won't... so... please, don't run away from me any more... just... don't... at least listen..."

John doesn't even notice how he lifts his arm, pulls the other man closer and holds him tight. „If you ever", he whispers, „ever do that again, I swear, I'll track you down and take care that your next death is _not_ a fake. You hear me, Sherlock Holmes? Don't you _ever_ do that again!"

And Sherlock gives him a shaky laugh. „Never again..."

John lets his head fall against his shoulders. Yes. He is there. He is here, warm and alive and real and anything but a drug-induced hallucination and he will explain... later. Later. When they have calmed down from the shock, when they are at home, when they are huddled in some blankets, a mug of tea in each of their hands. No need to hurry. They've got time now.

This is what I do when I should be sleeping.

*sigh* Been too long... need more discipline for writing...


End file.
